Esprit de Corps
by C.D.Wofford
Summary: Sherlock hates Christmas. John figures it's just his sociopathic tendencies kicking in, but it could very well be something more. Just what is that mysterious gift that Mycroft left by the flat for his brother, anyway, and why is Sherlock so protective of it? A short, two-part fiction in which a glimpse into Sherlock's childhood could give us everything we need to know.
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: _I do not own any of the characters, do not stand to profit from this story, and all rights belong to the Doyle family and the brilliant people behind BBC's _SHERLOCK. _**

**_Note from the Author: _I wrote this before the release of season three, so it was just my headcannon at the time and I do realise it doesn't really fit anymore. But I liked the story anyway, (and I like the name Everett more than Scott) so here it is. **

* * *

_Esprit de Corps: Part I_

"Sherlock Everett Holmes, you embarrass me. Don't you dare start crying! Don't. You. Dare!" The man grabbed the face of the curly-headed little boy roughly

and lifted his chin. He bent down until his face was level with Sherlock's, staring coldly into the blue eyes bright with tears.

"I- I wasn't, sir," Sherlock stuttered, desperately trying to mask the tremor in his voice. He blinked furiously, managing to keep the tears from overflowing but

failing in getting them to stop blurring his vision.

"You were just about to start. Don't lie to me!" Mr. Holmes ground out from between clenched teeth, his voice rising. He shook Sherlock roughly and let go of

him, straightening back up to tower over his son. Sherlock shrank back a step or two. Mr. Holmes sniffed in disgust and tugged sharply on his suit jacket to

straighten it, brushing his sleeves as if contact with the shivering little boy had defiled him.

"My own child, afraid of me. I'm insulted. You're pathetic."

He stepped over to the bedroom door and paused with his hand on the knob.

"Stay here in your room until I've gone. It ruins a man's Christmas days off to have to deal with a child like you. I've no desire to associate with you, or even

see you, for the remainder of my time here. Am I understood?"

Sherlock nodded, and one tear managed to escape.

"I hate you," he said, his voice breaking. He didn't mean it. It was a cry for help, a plea for some reassurance that his Daddy still loved him, some sign of

concern or pity. The father froze, staring expressionless at the pale, dark-haired boy before him. Sherlock dared hope. At last his father opened his mouth to

reply.

"At present, son, the sentiment is returned fully." He said the words calmly, coolly, and oh, he absolutely meant them. Grownups always meant it when they

said things like that. Especially Siger Delaware Holmes.

Sherlock sank slowly onto the bed, shell-shocked. But Mr. Holmes wasn't finished.

"It was by some freak accident you were born into this family. If you were meant to exist at all, it wasn't as a Holmes. In fact, I'll tell you right now, if it wasn't

for your mother you'd have been committed to the foster system a long time ago."

Sherlock was still trying to take it in. He looked so lost and small and scared, staring unbelievingly into his father's hard face.

"What?" he whispered, "No…no. You don't…want me? You want to give me away?"

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes said, and left the room.

The sound of the door forcefully closing roused Sherlock from his trance. He sprang up, ran over to the door, and locked it from the inside. He turned back to his

bed and threw himself across it, burying his face in the rich golden-colored comforter…and "like summer tempests came his tears".

Sherlock Holmes cried. He cried harder than he had ever cried in his life, harder than he promised himself he would ever cry again. Great choking sobs racked

his thin body, broken wails came unbidden from his lips. He buried his face further.

Thirty minutes passed, and a gentle knock sounded at the door.

"Sherlock, it's Mummy," she said, "Please let me come in and talk to you about it." Her voice was kind and gentle, and sad. Sad for him. She tried the handle,

but it didn't give.

"No. Go away," he sobbed, though the sound of her voice had soothed him a bit.

"Darling, please open the door. Oh Sherlock, are you crying?"

"No," Sherlock lied, bitterly, "Of course not."

There was silence for a moment, and then she sighed.

"Mamma loves you," she said finally, and then he heard her footsteps descending the stairs.

"_Daddy hates you…But Mummy loves you." _He tried to only think of the last part, not let the other enter his mind. He succeeded for a few minutes.

"_Mummy loves me, Mummy loves me, Mummy loves me…but Dad hates me." _

It wouldn't stay away.

Another step sounded on the stair. Sherlock knew at once who it was; he recognized the tread. Mycroft. He'd was home from his special, high-end boarding

school for the Christmas holidays. Sherlock got up and unlocked the door, before flopping back onto his bed. The door opened quietly. There was silence again

for a minute, and then the person crossed the room and sat down on the bed by Sherlock.

"Dad's gone," Mycroft said, "He left a few minutes ago. Wasn't in the mood to stay for Christmas dinner, I suppose. How's my little brother?"

Sherlock sniffed and turned over to sit up, and Mycroft saw the tear tracks on his face.

"Oh."

Mycroft put an arm around his brother's shoulders. Sherlock leaned into him, still steadying his breathing.

"Hard luck on Christmas Day, Sherlock. He gave you a pretty rough time didn't he?" Mycroft's voice was gentle.

"He did," Sherlock replied.

"Ah," Mycroft said, his arm tightening protectively around Sherlock, "I heard him tell Mummy he'd belted you. What happened?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I didn't know he was home yet. I was reading and I heard someone come into the room without knocking. You're the only one who does that, My, and I didn't

look up from the book to see who it was. If I'd heard the steps on the stairs I'd have known it wasn't you, but I was too interested in what I was reading…"

Sherlock stopped and looked up into Mycroft's face to see if he understood. Mycroft nodded and raised his eyebrows for Sherlock to continue. "I asked a

question about something I read. And he got mad and said that I shamed him and the whole Holmes family by asking stupid questions about things like an

unintelligent idiot instead of learning things for myself."

"That's preposterous," Mycroft sniffed.

"I thought Mummy said you learn _by _asking questions?" Sherlock asked.

"She's right," Mycroft said, "Continue?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"And he said I knew how many times he'd forbidden me to ask him questions and that I needed something to help me remember, and…" Sherlock shrugged

again.

"I see. Does it hurt still?" Mycroft's voice wasn't any different, but Sherlock was gratified to notice the tiny change in Mycroft's bearing that spoke of his anger.

Mycroft was on his side.

The question seemed to surprise Sherlock. He thought for a minute, and then nodded.

"Yes. I suppose it does. I wouldn't have minded it so much, though. It was what he said after that upset me."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock told him word for word, his chin quivering once or twice at the repetition of it but otherwise keeping his composure admirably.

"Abominable," Mycroft said disdainfully, when he'd heard. "He didn't tell Mummy about that. Why didn't you talk to her when she came up?"

"You know how it is when he comes home. He can make her believe anything. I didn't want to talk to her."

Mycroft didn't say anything, but he nodded. Sherlock sighed.

"Well, now that it really _is _me, what's that question you had about your reading?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock jumped up and disappeared behind the other side of the bed, and a minute later his mop of hair emerged over the edge of the bed, a dust bunny or

two clinging to the black curls.

"Shoved it under the bed so Dad wouldn't take it away," he said, by way of explanation, as he sat back down by his brother with a book. He handed it to

Mycroft.

"Page 97, paragraph three, twenty-seventh word," he said.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows when he saw the title.

"You're reading this? It's in French."

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm teaching myself French. I've already read all the Italian books in Mummy's library."

"It's '_The Collective Writings of Napoleon Bonaparte', _Sherlock. You're five."

Sherlock grinned, and Mycroft flipped to the designated page.

"_Esprit de corps," _Sherlock said, looking over Mycroft's shoulder and carefully enunciating each syllable with the correct French pronunciation. "What's it mean?"

"The three words together function as a noun-" Mycroft began.

"I know _that," _Sherlock interrupted, impatiently, "But what does it mean?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"It means a sort of brotherhood. A close camaraderie, inspiring enthusiasm, devotion, and strong regard for the honor of the group in each individual member."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, curiously.

"So, do we have that? You and me?"

Mycroft hesitated.

"Well, in the context of the book it's not referring to actual brothers. It's describing the bond between the soldiers in Napoleon's army."

"But esprit de corps _could_ be talking about real brothers, right?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Certainly."

"So do you think we have it?" Sherlock asked again, eagerly.

Mycroft actually smiled, something he'd done less frequently since he'd gone away to school. He patted Sherlock's shoulder affectionately.

"Well, I should think- yes, I suppose we do."

Sherlock grinned and hopped off the bed, sliding the book back onto a place on his bedside bookshelf.

"Have you seen the turkey, My?"

"No, I haven't. I gather it's the second one Mum's bought…something about a mishap concerning the first one?"

Sherlock blushed.

"I read about an experiment in a book I wanted to try. I ran electric current through it to see if I could make it twitch, but it sort of ruined the turkey though.

The new one's twice as big, anyway."

A tapping sound of heels on the marble floor at the foot of the staircase, and then a feminine voice called, "Boys, it's almost time for Dinner. Could you come on

downstairs, please?"

"Yes, Mum, be there in a minute," Mycroft called back.

Sherlock got a mischievous look in his eyes.

"Wanna see if I can guess what she's wearing? I've been practicing guessing things since you've left."

"Deducing, not guessing. There's a difference. But what is she wearing?"

"The silver velvet dress with the sparkly hair beret that has fake snow dusted around the diamonds and her Paris shoes."

"Let's go see."

Mummy Holmes was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her boys to come down, dressed for dinner and resplendent in her silver velvet dress. Sherlock

thought she was absolutely lovely. He shot a smug look at Mycroft, who winked at him.

"You look so nice, dears," she said, proudly, taking in their black slacks, which even Sherlock had managed to keep nicely pressed. Sherlock wore a dark green

dress shirt, (without a tie) and Mycroft wore a deep red one (with a tie).

She met Sherlock with a hug and patted Mycroft's shoulder.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Merry Christmas, Mycroft."

"Merry Christmas. I learned a new word today, Mummy," Sherlock said, as they started toward the dining room. "Esprit de Corps. Me and Mycroft have it."

Mummy smiled.

"You do. That's special. Don't ever let anything change it, boys."

Later that night, Mummy finished her book and closed it, laying it on the table beside the sofa. There was no light in the room besides the fairy lights on the

Christmas tree and the big log fire in the grand fireplace. She looked across to the other sofa and smiled, filling with motherly warmth. Sherlock had "_The _

_Collective Writings of Napoleon Bonaparte" _slipping out of his fingers, and his face half covered with a fold of his soft red dressing-gown. He was asleep, leaning

on Mycroft's shoulder. He stirred, and his sleepy head relocated to Mycroft's lap. Mycroft looked back across at his Mum from over the top of his own book, and

shared a pleased look with her. She smiled, and mouthed, _Esprit de Corps._

* * *

**_Notes: Isn't it SAD? Because they obviously did let something change it. :'( Don't fret, though! Part II will be updated soon. _**


	2. Part II

**Disclaimer: I still don't own these beautiful characters. Just borrowing them for fun. :)**

**Note from the Author: Here's part two! We're skipping a number of years to Sherlock's adulthood and his friendship with John. Lemme know whatcha think! Reviews make me happy. Also a quick note: "A Tale of Two Cities" is now in the public domain, so I'm not stealin' anything. Dickens gets ALL the credit for that beautiful book. **

* * *

Esprit de Corps: Part II

"I hate Christmas," Sherlock grumped, staring at the ceiling from his place stretched on the couch. "Not only the day itself; the entire season is insufferable!" He wrinkled his face in disgust as he spoke and made a frustrated motion in the air with his hand, before letting it fall limply down and hang off the couch.

"You're a regular humbug, Sherlock. Seriously! You sound like Scrooge."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, as John came back into the living-room with yet another box of Christmas lights, and sat down in his chair to untangle them.

"At least I'm not stingy with my resources. I paid for takeaway –what was it, twelve times?- last month. But I have to say I sympathize fully with the character's view of the holidays."

John looked impressed.

"D'you know that's the first cultural reference I've made that you understood?"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I'm fairly well versed in Dickens. When I was at Uni I memorized the entirety of 'A Tale of Two Cities' one night while my roommate was out at some senseless party."

"So what is it about Christmas you hate so much?" John asked, good-naturedly.

Sherlock ruffed his hands through his hair vigorously, apparently with the sole purpose of making it stick out in every direction. It made him look very much like a kid.

"The ridiculous levels of goodwill result in virtually nonexistent crime rates. I have to wait until new Year's for anything remotely interesting to happen. Once New Year's hits, I usually have my choice of five or six good gases at once, but Christmas…" he shook his head and sighed dramatically.

"Ah. Bored. Should have guessed," John tutted, grinning at his friend's dismal mood. It was quiet for a few minutes as John concentrated on a particularly challenging knot in the string lights.

"Did you say you'd memorized the _whole _'Tale of Two Cities'?" John broke the silence. Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"Yes."

"Do you still remember it?" John asked, fascinated.

"Word for word, complete and unabridged," Sherlock mumbled.

John got up and dropped the box of lights on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up, his mussed hair and the dressing gown hanging off one shoulder adding to his startled expression. John snickered, taking a slightly damaged copy of the Dickens classic off the bookshelf.

"Let's see."

He plopped down in his chair and opened to the first page, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock to begin. Sherlock launched into the opening, John following along in the book ready to pounce on any mistakes.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity-"

Glancing up, John noticed that while Sherlock was distracted with his recitation, his hands absently busied themselves with the lights.

"-it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way-"

The doorbell buzzed downstairs, and John set the book on the arm of the chair to go answer it. On the way down, he could still hear Sherlock forging ahead.

"-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of the noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only. There were a king with a large jaw, and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England-"

He smiled and shook his head, reaching the door just as the doorbell again announced the visitor with increased vigor.

* * *

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed, nonplussed at seeing the elegant elder Holmes with chilly red cheeks and nose, shivering on the doorstep in a fashionable suit and sophisticated tailor-made coat that was rather too light for the weather.

"Complements of the season, John," Mycroft said, managing a tight smile while trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Come in, come in, it's freezing out there," John said quickly, stepping aside. Mycroft stepped inside, scrubbing the slush and snow off his highly polished shoes on the mat.

"I'm only staying a moment; I had some deliveries to make, and in light of their nature I presumed it would be befitting to make them in person. I come bearing gifts."

"Won't you come upstairs?" John asked.

"No, no, that won't be necessary. We don't want a repeat of the year 2,000."

John grinned.

"You two had a tiff? Worse than usual, I mean?"

"Let's just say, when Sherlock is indulging in one of his black Christmas moods it's best to stay out of his way. At any rate, I've got to be off. I just need to leave these with you."

Mycroft produced three tastefully decorated small packages labeled for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock, respectively.

"The new iPhone," he said, by way of explanation, handing John the package with his name on it. "Not the most recent one, the _actual _newest one. Not due to be released for five years."

He raised an eyebrow at John as he handed him Sherlock's, which, by the weight and shape, seemed to be a book.

"Don't let him burn it before he sees what it is."

John laughed.

"I won't. Happy Christmas, Mycroft."

"Happy Christmas, John."

John left Mrs. Hudson's gift by the door of her flat, as she was out for the day, and then trudged upstairs with his and Sherlock's.

* * *

When he came back into the living room, Sherlock was still talking.

"-The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses…"

He stopped when John stepped across to put another log on the fire.

"Where've you been? I'm halfway through the second chapter."

"Your brother called. He left you a gift. I'm not to allow you to destroy it until you open it first."

John handed the red-and-green wrapped present to Sherlock, who took it carefully and regarded it with suspicion. He turned it over in his hands, studying it from every angle, distrust written on his features as if he thought it might explode the moment he tore the paper.

John rolled his eyes and began playing with is own gift; the sleek new phone was definitely a nice one. He was sure he didn't want to know how much it had cost.

Sherlock unfolded his lanky self off the couch and stepped into the kitchen, holding the present up to the light and looking at it more closely.

"Sherlock, it's not poisonous," John prompted, his own curiosity rising.

"You never know," Sherlock's distracted voice floated from the kitchen. John got up and wandered over to peer over Sherlock's shoulder as the wrapping was removed. Sherlock let out a little gasp of "Oh," when he saw what was it was. John didn't see anything special. A old, nicely bound copy of some book, the title of which was in French. Not old enough to be valuable or antique, though.

"_Le Collectif écrits de Napoléon Bonaparte_," John read, slowly, not at all sure of the French pronunciation. "Does it mean something? A puzzle, or…an inside joke?"

"The collective writings of Napoleon Bonaparte," Sherlock translated. "It's not a puzzle. Or a joke."

He offered no other explanation, and John noted the distant look in Sherlock's expression. Sherlock opened the book and it fell open to the 97th page. A piece of stationary slipped out onto the table, and John picked it up. It was in French, also, to his disappointment. It appeared to be Mycroft's writing, though. He handed it to Sherlock, and picked up the book to inspect as Sherlock read the note.

It was unreadable, to him, but he did notice that one phrase had been circled in pen, and a line connecting it to a note made beside it in the margin. It was childish writing, but neat. And it was in English.

Us.

That was all it said. "Us."

Sherlock took the book into the living-room and set it on the arm of his chair, without making any derogatory remark about his brother, or the gift. John's curiosity was fairly killing him. He sat across from Sherlock and stared at him expectantly, but Sherlock ignored him. He was too busy digging around the flat for a pen, which, when he found, he scribbled another note in French beneath the words his brother wrote on the paper and carefully placed it back in the book.

"Well?" John finally burst out.

"Well what?" Sherlock asked.

"What is it?"

"I think it's fairly obvious that it's a book, John. I've already told you it's title."

"But why did he give you an old book?"

Sherlock looked at him wryly.

"I imagine because of the tradition of exchanging gifts at Christmastime. Don't you think so?"

"Fine," John said, eyes glinting with the challenge, "I'll find another way. I'll ask your brother."

Sherlock looked amused.

"Go right ahead."

John gave up trying to get a straight answer out of Sherlock. But he did still want to find out what it meant. And he was going to get to the bottom of it, one way or another.

* * *

"Yeah, hey, Mycroft. It's John."

It was Christmas Eve. Sherlock was in the kitchen, wearing a protective lab apron and, amazingly, cooking actual food with some amount of skill. He'd seemed slightly offended when John had shown surprise at this new ability, and explained that cooking was a highly simplified version of chemistry. Child's play, in other words.

He was rude and ridiculous as usual, but John appreciated the effort to get into the Christmas spirit. Whatever Sherlock's perception of _that_ was. And while Sherlock was busy and distracted, John seized his chance to solve the mystery of The Gift.

"Hello, I see you're putting the new iPhone to use," Mycroft said, sounding distracted. John could hear the click of keyboards in the background and muffled instructions to Anthea to "run the Zimbabwe files". He guessed that when you practically run the country, you don't get a Christmas break.

"Um, I just had a question about Sherlock's gift," John said. "What's it mean?" He winced. That sounded really stupid. And nosy.

The background computer noises stopped, and Mycroft suddenly sounded mildly interested.

"Has he kept it? I expected that he'd get rid of it."

"Oh, yeah, he's kept it. It's on the arm of his chair, and he watches me like a cat whenever I go near it, like he thinks I'll destroy it or something if I touch it."

"Have you had a chance to inspect it?" Mycroft asked.

"I saw a phrase circled in the book when he first opened it, but I can't read French and he won't let me see it again."

"Look up the definition of the phrase esprit de corps. French. Your new phone should have a language translation feature."

"Alright; hold on."

John pulled the phone away from his face and quickly located the feature Mycroft had mentioned. He scanned the definition and then held the phone back up.

"Ookaayy…" he said, "So what's _that _mean?"

Mycroft sighed.

"That book is a relic, John. All that's left of something that used to be. Did you see the note by the phrase in the book?"

"It just said, 'us'."

"When Sherlock was very small, he was different than he is today. Our family life was difficult, especially for him. We depended on each other then. On a particularly hard day, he showed me that book and asked me what that one line meant."

"So," John said, beginning to understand, "The 'us'. Sherlock wrote that. And he meant the two of you. You had this esprit de corps."

John found it hard to imagine Sherlock having any other kind of relationship with his brother than the one he had now, but he found the concept intriguing.

"You have it, now, John."

"What? What do you mean? I thought it meant a special bond between brothers."

Mycroft could hear the confusion in John's voice.

"It can apply to biological brothers, certainly," he explained, "but it's a broader term than only that. It has a much…fuller meaning."

"Huh," John replied, his interest showing in his tone. "I wouldn't have thought Sherlock would…I don't know, buy into something like that."

"He was different, then. Considering that he's kept the book, however, it may be that he's not changed as much as his present behaviors would lead us to believe, perhaps."

A frustrated exclamation from Sherlock followed the hiss of something boiling over and the clatter of a pot lid being slammed down.

"John! Are you on the phone? Your girlfriend can wait; I need someone in the kitchen. Oh, I forgot the…Mrs. Hudson! Did you ever bring that strainer back up after you borrowed it?"

John glanced into the kitchen and saw Sherlock stepping around in a somewhat frenzied fashion, clouds of steam filling the workspace. It looked as if he had the cooking back under control, but his patience was wearing out, none the less. John turned back away.

"Um...I better go. Sherlock's needing some help."

He could hear a smile in Mycroft's voice when he replied.

"Alright, then. Just remember that you have something extremely rare, John. Don't let anything get in the way. Merry Christmas."

"Mm-hm! A merry Christmas to you, too, Mycroft. Bye, then."

"Goodbye."

John hung up and sauntered into the kitchen, to have a wire whisk thrust at him. He laughed and volunteered to go downstairs after the strainer, suggesting that Sherlock could finish the recitation of "The Tale of Two Cities" after dinner.

* * *

The fire was snapping and hissing quietly, shedding a warm glow throughout the dark room. John was snuggled into his chair with a blanket and a hot cup of cocoa after dinner, watching Sherlock's eager face across from him in the firelight as he recited the last line of the Dickens book in his deep, rich voice. His hand rested absently on his brother's gift, lying on the arm of the chair.

"'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.' Finis.

There was a silence, and then John closed the book, which he'd long since stopped following along in.

"That…was…incredible."

Sherlock looked quietly pleased.

"Do you think so?"

"Absolutely. It's amazing."

Sherlock smiled. And John thought to himself that whatever this was that he had, this friendship, this brotherhood, this _esprit de corps…_he would never, ever let anything in the way.

_Finis_

* * *

**Another Note from the Author: So what do you think, guys? Ta-da! This marks the end of my first fanfiction. BUT, there's much more to come! I have lots of stories written already, some of them short and some of them as many as fifty chapters. My aim is to post something new every Monday and Friday. So stay tuned! **


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